by K. J. Hargan
In the water, white islands floated south. Gigantic pieces of ice calved from the ice fields of Eann to the north. There were more and more icebergs with every phase of the moon. It was said if you watched the Ice Fields of Eann from the western shore of the lake, you could see massive pieces of ice splashing into the water at an unceasing rate.
All the white islands of ice drifted south to the northern shore of Byland. There were so many icebergs pushing against Byland, it doubled its width, making great trouble for the human sentries trying to keep the invading garonds out of Wealdland.
All along Ettonne the rising water of the lake devoured what was once a rocky shore line. The pristine, flooding water lapped away at the dirt of the hills running down to the water’s edge.
Lake Ettonne turned a beautiful, clear sky blue as the morning sun rose, and the suns rays were like spears of light lancing the banks of clouds high in the east. The sun and clouds were magnificently reflected in the enormous mirror of the lake.
“Find out if any of Apghilis’ men have joined us,” Arnwylf said to Geleiden as he took his turn running with Maldon’s death litter.
Geleiden was gone only a short time and returned wearing an expression of wonderment.
“Well?” Arnwylf asked.
“All of them,” Geleiden said with shock.
“All of them...?” Arnwylf asked in amazement.
“Apghilis has fled, alone, for his life,” Geleiden said, “his men believed you, and want to fight for you.”
Arnwylf turned to look at Husvet with kindness. “We didn’t give them a martyr,” Arnwylf said.
Husvet just smiled a sad, pained smile, and slightly nodded.
“Next time he won’t be so fortunate,” Arnwylf said. Then he turned to Geleiden.
“Tell the men who once followed Apghilis if they wish to fight with me, they must come out front, here with me. They are fresh, unlike my men who have been fighting garonds all day.”
Geleiden nodded and trotted back to the main body of pursuing humans.
Ravensdred looked back. The humans were gaining again. His stupid soldiers all had short, bow legs. They were starved, and fought a vicious battle in the ruins of Ethgeow. They would have to fight again at Glafemen.
They crossed two rivers, Nettle and Ryp, which fed into the Bight of Man. Both were bone dry, so Ravensdred decided it best not to waste any soldiers in a delaying tactic which would gain him no advantage.
As Arnwylf ran, a soldier, once of Apghilis army ran beside him and took his end of Maldon’s death litter. Another soldier tried to take Husvet’s end, but he wouldn’t let him.
Arnwylf held his hand up so there would be no confrontation. Then, two soldiers, once of Apghilis, put their hands under Husvet’s, to ease the weight, but still allow him to carry his dead brother wolf. Husvet slightly bowed his head as tears streamed down his face.
The ruins of Glafemen loomed in the afternoon sun. Ravensdred remembered burning this city. It was the first large human city he had put to the torch. It was too easy as the Northern Kingdom of Man, their northern neighbor, had nearly pushed the race of Glafs to extinction in a civil war cleverly devised by his master to cause the humans of Wealdland to decimate their own ranks before the garond army even began the most overtly destructive part of their invasion.
The Glafs were clever and even with a small army were difficult to defeat. Had they been at their full strength, they would have beaten the garond invasion. After the razing of Glafemen, Ravensdred made a serious study of tactics and stratagem. He frowned to himself. With all his studies, he still had been out foxed time and again by human generals.
Ravensdred smiled to himself. When he attacked Glafemen, the athelings of Man and the Lords of the Weald knew what was happening, but neither nation, to the north and to the south, came to the aid of their human neighbor.
The siege of Glafemen was the first overt attack of the garond invasion. The decimation of Kipleth had been secret, and Ravensdred had detested the necessary creeping about.
He remembered the faces of the women and children, slaughtered and consumed by his army. What a glorious day that was. He wished he had more Glafs to kill, but they were all now extinct.
Glafemen was a black lump of melted stones, atop a gentle sloping, grassy rise. This ruin would provide little cover. The pasture all around Glafemen was dotted with Aurochs, doderns, and horses.
Perhaps he could capture a horse to escape to the Far Grasslands, Ravensdred thought. But the horse would be wild and unpredictable. It might send him directly into the human ranks, better to scatter them, or try to drive them at the humans.
Ravensdred barked an order at a captain. The command was relayed, and several garonds peeled off to try to make use of the pasture grazers.
Ravensdred could feel the exhaustion in his legs. He knew his army would be in even worse shape than he was. The coming fight at Glafemen would be awful, if not total. The human army behind him had gathered in numbers. The battle with Apghilis had not turned out how he had hoped. Instead of lowering Arnwylf’s number of soldiers even further, it had increased them.
Ravensdred knew what he had to do. He barked at a soldier carrying the wrapped sword. If nothing else, he had to get the Mattear Gram to his master.
Arnwylf remembered this land. He had come to Glafemen last autumn to find recruits for the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands. He found only three Glafs. The last of their race, Yulenth, his grandfather by marriage; Solienth, once a general of the Glaf army; and Ronenth, a young, dark haired boy almost his age, with whom he became the closest of friends. Arnwylf allowed himself a moment to wonder what Ronenth was doing in the New Rogar Li, but then focused his mind back on capturing Ravensdred and the Mattear Gram.
The garonds reached the black, blasted stones of Glafemen with great fatigue.
“PAN (grunt)!” Ravensdred ordered, and the garond army wearily stopped and turned. Then he allowed himself to drift to the back of main crush of his army. He had to time this just right.
“Watch for the big one,” Arnwylf said to Conniker. “Don’t let him get away.” Conniker yipped in assent.
As the human army charged through the pasture, they set down the twenty litters carrying the dead wolves and rushed the garond army.
The battle was brutal and quick. The garonds didn’t have the strength to resist.
Conniker bolted away from the crush of battle. “I see him!” The white wolf cried.
Arnwylf sprinted after his wolf brother. On the edge of Glafemen, Ravensdred had abandoned his troops and was fleeing with a sword swaddled in cloth.
“Ravensdred!” Arnwylf cried.
Ravensdred turned and drew a sword, throwing the wrapped sword to the earth. Conniker leapt at the garond, but he was quick and kicked the tired wolf hard. Conniker fell with a yelp.
Arnwylf came at Ravensdred hard, slashing and striking. But soon both were very tired, circling each other. A few garonds ran past. The battle was nearly over, and the garonds had lost.
Arnwylf swung his sword, but Ravensdred quickly cut forward, slicing across Arnwylf’s face. Arnwylf doubled over in pain, but before Ravensdred could deliver a killing stroke, Conniker leapt up and tore at his arm.
Ravensdred pulled the white wolf off his arm just in time to see the whole human army bearing down on him. He turned and ran with all his might.
Geleiden and Husvet rushed up to help Arnwylf.
“It’s just a little cut” Arnwylf said as he touched the cut running from between his eyes down across his nose down to his right cheek. Arnwylf scurried to the bundle Ravensdred had dropped. He tore it open. It was the Mattear Gram.
Arnwylf held the magnificent sword up to the sunlight and a thousand diamond bursts of light reflected off its blade. Then Arnwylf came to his senses.
Arnwylf turned to see Geleiden’s Lanner and two other wolves chasing after the five last garonds, Ravensdred in their number.
“Call your wolves back!” Arnwylf commanded.
“I don’t want to lose another, single wolf.”
Geleiden whistled high and loud, and Lanner and the other two wolves stopped and ran back.
Arnwylf turned to see Husvet, openly weeping and cradling his dead wolf, Maldon.
“Send the bonded soldiers back for their brothers,” Arnwylf said. “We have several hundred humans to catch those five garonds.”
Then, Arnwylf was frozen by a familiar voice.
“My dear Arnwylf,” Deifol Hroth said.
Arnwylf looked about. He couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.
‘Arnwylf?” Geleiden said as he stopped short. Some of the human soldiers had already started after the last garonds, but now they stopped, wondering what was the problem.
“Where are you?” Arnwylf shouted.
“I am right here,” the voice of pure evil said. “I am right where you will give me the Mattear Gram, and your hand.”
“Come and get them!” Arnwylf shouting, turning with the sun sword flashing in his grip.
Arnwylf turned in circles, violently hacking at the air with the Mattear Gram, ready for the Lord of Lightning.
“Come and get me!” Arnwylf cried.
“I will,” Deifol Hroth said. “I will.”
Then Arnwylf collapsed.
Arnwylf came to as the sun was setting. He was still tightly clutching the Mattear Gram.
The human army had made camp. There were aurochs to slaughter and cook, and the soldiers were in good spirits.
Geleiden jumped to his feet as Arnwylf stirred.
“Where is Husvet?” Arnwylf asked.
“He is with the brotherhood,” Geleiden softly said. “When the sun goes down, we will mourn in the tradition of wolves.”
“Where is Conniker?”
“Also with the wolves.”
“We must be with them,” Arnwylf said as he got unsteadily to his feet. “Did they catch Ravensdred?”
“No,” Geleiden said. “The men who followed him lost the last garonds on the ice flows that crush the southern shore of the Great Lake of Ettonne.”
“Then he has made it back to the Far Grasslands,” Arnwylf bitterly said as they walked to the shore of Ettonne.
“He may have fallen through the ice and drowned,” Geleiden wryly mused.
“That crafty devil?” Arnwylf said as they came upon the bodies of twenty two wolves laid out near where the swelling waters of the Great Lake of Ettonne swallowed what was once a pebbled shore. The twenty remaining wolves nuzzled and sniffed the dead bodies. There were two humans also laid out among the dead.
Arnwylf and Geleiden carefully entered the sacred circle to carefully stroke and smell their fallen comrades, just as the living wolves were doing.
Arnwylf put his nose on Maldon’s mane and breathed in deeply. The musky smell of the dead wolf was heartbreaking. But he held his breath, wanting to remember his friend, his brother, always.
The sun set in the west. Conniker let out a long, solo howl. It was a clear note filled with anguish, mourning, love and hope. Then the other wolves joined in as darkness fell. The humans of the brotherhood also howled to wish their brothers a good hunt in the next life. Husvet doubled over in pain, weeping with out reservation. Arnwylf put his hand on Husvet’s head, a conflagration of angry revenge burned in Arnwylf’s heart.
Then the howling stopped.
“What is it?” Arnwylf asked.
All the wolves stared intently out to the inky depths of the lake, their back hairs furiously bristling. The humans all stood to get a better look.
Out in the ebony fathoms, not far from the shore, a long reptilian body coiled and turned in the water. Long and black, the scaly body slowly twisted in the lapping, frigid lake. Then the strange water beast sank into the hidden, jet deep without a splash.
“What was that?” Geleiden asked in horror, but no one could answer him.
Chapter Six
The Citadel
“Haerreth!” The blonde haired captain from Reia cried for his lost general. “Where are you!?” The night and the mist had so obscured his vision, he could barely make out the end of his own sword in the vile curls of enchanted murk. He constantly stumbled, and kept his free hand out in front of him, although that hand also disappeared into the miasma of the mist. All was a wall of white and the winter night’s shadows.
“Haerreth!” He called again.
Something shifted just beyond the visible. Garond clubs swung down on him. He parried and deflected. The garonds moved quickly in and out of the mist. The captain fell over a woody shrub, and struggled to his feet, wildly swinging his sword.
“Men of Reia!” The captain called out, his voice breaking. The garonds came again and the captain was able to skewer one. But the remaining garonds attacked more fiercely pushing him back and back, until his left hand touched a brick wall.
The captain was shocked. He turned to look at the deep black bricks of the wall behind him. And then, the hand touching the bricks began to burn.
He tried to pulled his hand away but it stuck fast to the infinitely black bricks. The captain screamed in pain. The garonds all around him swung their clubs, pushing and slamming him against the black wall. Everywhere he came in contact with the wall of the citadel, he stuck fast and burned.
A death stroke finished the captain. The garonds grunted to each other in satisfaction as the captain was pulled away from the black, black bricks, pulling away with a sickening, cracking sound, and the reek of burnt flesh.
The garonds moved off looking for more prey. They knew better than to ever touch the bricks stolen from the elvish capital. The bricks were effused with magic, the last magic, and so the most powerful of magics in all of Wealdland.
The citadel was a sprawling edifice. Black openings yawned all along it’s outer wall. There were no doors, nor a need for them. There was no formal structure or orderliness to the layout. The stone rooms and halls were a labyrinth intentionally meant to entice, mislead and entrap. It spread out in a crooked oval, with a massive tower at the center.
The garonds had to carefully learn the paths through the citadel, because the mist was pervasive. There was blindness and concealed beasts behind every corner.
It was rumored among the garonds that their Dark Master had brought in fantastical, hungry animals from the far reaches of the end of the world, and vile beasts unleashed from the pits of hell.
One monster in particular was responsible for the enchanted mist. It lived in the lowest pits, and was vile to behold and lethal to approach. The garonds only whispered of its existence.
Another beast was said to be held hostage. How such a titanic creature could be held against its will was a mystery. But any garond who dared to venture into this beast’s stable was instantly crushed under its cruel, tremendous hooves. It was said to be the hybrid offspring of the extinct wyrm race, and it spoke in frightening, low, guttural monosyllabic snarls.
No garond ever strayed from the learned paths through the citadel, for the darkness and the mist was unforgiving and brutal. Anyone lost was lost forever.
There were also some garonds the other garonds avoided. Usually they were chained to whatever nook in which they were hidden. They had been changed and mutated by the Evil Lord of Magic.
Some said it was a great honor to be so changed, to have extra arms, distended jaws, gnarled, massive hands, or muscular, twisted backs. Most just avoided these transformed garonds as they would not speak, only kill and eat.
The citadel had hidden depths, but no garonds dare go there. Moans and groans of pain and torment regularly wafted up from that dank blackness.
Deifol Hroth would sometimes be seen emerging from the cavernous archways which led to the depths, and He would always have a smile on His face and be pleasant for the rest of the day.
The central feature of the citadel was a tower. At the tower’s base were massive stones, cut and dragged from far away lands to support the weight of the black tower.
Some garonds sa
id the circle of stones were so large they would still be standing when the days of the earth were ended.
Inside the tower were ten levels, each to serve the whim and pleasure of the Dark Lord. Since Deifol Hroth never ate nor drank, there were no kitchens. There was a level in the tower that was completely filled with books of every type. It was said that the Great Dark Master had raided the libraries of Ethgeow, Glafemen, and Rogar Li as the cities burned. This was plausible to any garond, as it was well known that fire could not harm the Evil One in the slightest. Why, He played with lightning bolts as if they were children’s toys. The power of the Evil Lord of Magic was that of an angry god.
At the top most level of the tower was a chamber with no roof, open to the sky. There were eight very small windows in each of the eight walls.
There were no chairs, as the Dark One never sat, only tables filled with maps, books, and other curious objects of magical power. Skulls, broken bones, and the captured souls of the damned floating in agony littered every darkened corner. One living human was chained to a wall.
Stavolebe entered through the only, heavy oaken door in the whole citadel.
“M- Master?” He timidly whispered.
Deifol Hroth stood over the chained human, intently staring at him as though he interrogated the poor captive with his mind.
“Stavolebe,” the Dark one pleasantly said, turning. “Did you have any trouble getting in this time?”
“No, no trouble,” Stavolebe stammered. Then he caught his breath when he saw the human chained to the wall. He was a middle aged man, thin from hunger, unshaven and dirty. Stavolebe didn’t recognize the man, he most certainly wasn’t a wealdkin. But, Stavolebe knew better than to ask questions of the Lord of Magic. He had seen humans fried to a cinder, on the spot, for daring to ask even the most inconsequential of questions. Deifol Hroth was to be obeyed, nothing more.